


when hope dies

by nise_kazura



Series: the ring made me do it [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (not the author's unfortunately otherwise author would not have written this in the first place), Angst, Canon Divergence, Cirith Ungol, M/M, Regret, Somnophilia, fake necrophilia, i would say sorry but im not, if that makes yall feel better, it's all the ring's fault! or something like that, it's fake necrophilia because as we all know sam thinks frodo is dead but frodo is...not dead, like maybe 3 people want this fic and everyone else...decidedly does not, oh and there's like a tiny tiny smidge of suicidal ideation near the end-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: The Ring can take hold of many things. Greed. Resentment.Desire.(Love.)
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: the ring made me do it [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935442
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	when hope dies

**Author's Note:**

> so part of the reason why i wrote this is because there's this discord server im in and we had a game where we all start with the same first sentence and see what fic comes out of it. i would tell u to blame those people, except i'm the one that came up with the game and the first sentence. and this fic. so i can't. 
> 
> um.
> 
> enjoy?
> 
> P.S. this is completely unedited. comments about terrible writing are not welcome. comments about terrible content are justified.

Once upon a time, the world didn’t end. Not yet, anyway. 

But it might as well have, and when it does, it will be all Sam’s fault. 

He never should have left Frodo, no matter what Frodo said. He should have fought to stay by Frodo’s side, the way he said he would, instead of letting his own selfish hurt get in the way. And now Middle Earth’s last hope lies dead in his arms, eyes glassy and unseeing, face bloodless and slack. 

Sam tries to blink back the tears as best as he can. They sting his eyes, dry from the hot ash and burning winds of Mordor. Curse them. Curse his weakness. Curse the way it blurs his vision, obstructing from view the dear features of his master, his friend...his nevermore.

The webs wrapped around Frodo are sticky, and cling to his skin. There’s some in Sam’s hair, on his clothes, and he can feel the drag of them in the same way he can feel the crustiness of the grime that’s collected everywhere, in the creases and folds of his skin and cloak. He feels thick and heavy. His nerveless fingers trace Frodo’s face, trembling.

“Oh, Frodo.” He chokes out a sob, and his entire body is a tight ball of pain curled around the ache in his chest.

And suddenly, it is unacceptable for his master to be so confined. So trapped. Sam tugs at the webs frantically, ripping them apart, trying not to notice the limp way Frodo’s head lolls about on his neck, the way the flesh is slack and yielding and has no strength. 

Finally, he wrestles Frodo from his confines, and he is free to cradle him to his chest. To rock back and forth on his knees, keening softly, burying his face into Frodo’s shoulder the way he had as a boy when he’d fallen and Frodo had murmured to him that he was so strong, so brave, see, all done now, and placed a kiss upon the bandage. He inhales and hopes to take in the clean scent of his skin, wishing for a sweet taste of the Shire, but it is all ash and fear and old sweat. 

He is so cold. Colder than he was when he’d told Sam to go home. Sam hates this coldness more than the other. He brings Frodo’s hand to his chest and wishes he could give his heartbeat to him, wishes Frodo’s limp hand could leech the life from him and take it for his own.

Sam grips him tighter and rocks forward again, and Frodo’s shirt slips. The Ring peeks out, its metallic shine bright against the grey pallor of Frodo’s skin.

The Ring.

The quest.

He brushes a rough hand across Frodo’s cheek.

Well, there’s nothing for it, is there? He must take the Ring. He must take it into fire and flame, into the heart of darkness, and complete the quest for the both of them. Alone.

Without Frodo.

There will be no going home, after this. There is only forward, but no through. Is it the Shire, if Frodo isn’t there to greet him?

He lifts the ring carefully from Frodo’s tired neck, and Frodo’s eyes stare up at him accusingly, wide and still so afraid.

“Don’t you worry now, Mister Frodo,” Sam whispers. “Your Sam will take care of things.”

And with salt on his lips, he slips the chain over his head, back bowed so he can place a tender kiss upon the bridge of Frodo’s nose.

He never had the chance to do this, while Frodo was alive. He’d wanted to. Oh, he’d wanted. Everything fades, except for the sight of Frodo’s skin, peeking out from beneath his clothes. There’s whispering in his mind, something sibilant and tempting. He trails his nose, his lips down to Frodo’s cheekbone. 

Oh, oh. Oh, Frodo.

He’d never had a chance. And he never will.

Unless he takes his chance now.

Frodo’s body is revealed to him like the unfurling of flower petals, or the peeling of an orange. Something slow and natural, uncovering a tenderness underneath. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until he’s setting aside the clothing and all of his master is laid bare before him. 

Sam feels as though he should close Frodo’s eyes, so he won’t have to see the way Sam has fallen. Won’t have to see how Sam will dig his way further down now that he’s hit rock bottom and has nowhere else to go. But Sam leaves them, because he’s always loved Frodo’s eyes. He wants to look into them one last time. What’s the harm?

He doesn’t realize he’s let out a small, pathetic whine until it cuts off as he releases the buttons of his pants and his cock has room to breathe. 

Frodo is frightfully thin, his skin dry and cracked. He’d always been a bit underweight for a hobbit, but now every bit of suffering is writ upon the angles of bone and flesh. Sam places a covetous hand on one sharp hipbone and wishes he could have had Frodo like this as he should have been: plump and rosy-cheeked, surrounded by grass and flowers and laughing. But they have long since passed the time for that, and so Sam will take what he can get.

What he can get is Frodo’s soft cock nestled in a bed of dark curls. The intimate V of his hips, the vulnerable stretch of skin below his sac leading to the curve of his buttocks. Sam brushes a thumb down that stretch of skin and to the valley between Frodo’s cheeks, and just rests it there. He doesn’t push in—not yet. Just revelling in the fact that he can touch. The other hand lies flat on Frodo’s belly, his legs tossed over Sam’s.

“I love you, Frodo,” he whispers, and he feels something resonate with the words. Something greedy, something outside himself. Something that makes him run a hand up Frodo’s sternum and brush against one dark nipple. Something that urges him to press Frodo’s legs open and look upon him.

Just look. Maybe it’ll be enough to just look.

But looking turns into fondling, turns into licking, turns into sucking and moaning. Frodo plumps and firms up under his mouth. Is that supposed to happen, with dead bodies? Sam isn’t sure, but he can’t stop. 

It had been difficult, so difficult. Being so close to the object of his growing desires, but unable to touch. Unable to find a moment alone to relieve himself. Already he’s on the edge, sweating and sticky all over, like a pig roasting. He kisses Frodo’s slack mouth, and imagines that Frodo is kissing back, imagines that Frodo is reaching for him with a desperation that matches his own.

He grabs Frodo’s wrists and stretches them out above his head, resting his body on top and pins him down, and wishes that Frodo would move beneath him. Frodo would be beautiful, tossing his head as they rubbed together, crying out with his sweet voice.

But there is only his pale, stricken face, his lips now slick with Sam’s spit. Sam breathes harshly through his nose and bites down on the juncture between Frodo’s neck and shoulder. He shudders with pain, oh if only Frodo could love him back, hips jerking forward involuntarily.

The Ring swings between their bodies, swaying like it can’t decide where it would rather lay. Sam lets it rest on his chest as he leans back and lifts Frodo to him, one arm wrapped beneath his shoulders, and places a kiss on the scar that he’d seen Frodo clutch during the cold nights.

Sam has never been in the habit of lying, but that’s not to say he is unable to.

“I’m sorry,” he says, spreading Frodo’s cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sobs, as he forces Frodo’s body to yield to him.

There is lingering warmth, still, and Frodo is as relaxed as his body would ever allow, in life or death. Tears spill down Sam’s cheeks as he murmurs his love and sorrow and regret in turns, heaving over Frodo’s corpse like a great bull. He doesn’t know if what he’s feeling is love for Frodo or disgust for himself, all he knows is that it pains him and that the pain twists up inside of him and makes him thrust harder, faster. 

“Why must it be you?” he moans. “Why must it always be you?”

Frodo’s body jolts limply with every thrust. His empty face stares up at Sam, past Sam, through Sam. Like Sam isn’t even there. 

And suddenly Sam is angry.

_ “Why,” _ he grits out, and gives another punishing thrust,  _ “why  _ wouldn’t you listen to me?”

Why was he not enough? Not enough to protect Frodo, not enough to be loved by Frodo. Not enough to lead them through Mordor on their own. Never enough, not plain, old Samwise Gamgee. He wants to wrap his hands around Frodo’s throat, shake him, demand for something in return for all the nights he spent lying out in the open, watching Frodo tremble and moan in his sleep yet unable to hold him in his arms. 

“Why couldn’t you love me?” he screams into Frodo’s slack face, spittle flying from his lips, and he slumps forward, exhausted and spent. 

He surreptitiously wipes his snot on Frodo’s shoulder, tears leaking down the bridge of his nose. His eyes burn, puffy and sore.

He’s empty, hollowed out. Stretched thin.

And then he hears the orcs coming. 

He barely has time to tuck his cock back into his pants and scramble into hiding, so when they come into view, Frodo is there before them, seed leaking out from between his thighs, naked and vulnerable. 

“What’s this? Looks like old Shelob’s been having a bit of fun,” one says. “But she’s not the only one.”

They cackle.

“Killed another one, has she?”

“No…” the orc runs a filthy hand down Frodo’s leg, then laughs and tugs on Frodo’s cock, still half-hard and lying against his thigh. “This fellow ain’t dead.”

Something cold and hard settles in Sam’s stomach.

Not...dead?

“She jabs him with her stinger, and he goes as limp as a boned fish.  _ Then _ someone had their way with him,” it says, and all three of them laugh.

What has he done?

“Get him to the tower!”

Samwise, you fool. You utter fool.

(He is something worse than a fool, but he cannot say it.)

“This scum will be awake in a couple of hours.”

“Then he’ll wish he’d never been born.”

Sam can hardly breathe. The panic has set in, silent and paralyzing. He wonders if he puts on the Ring, if he could disappear forever, out of sight, out of knowledge, even from himself. 

Frodo’s eyes had been open. What did that mean?

His gaze had been so terrified, so haunted. What did that mean?

He clutches the ring to his chest. He isn’t sure which way to go. He cannot leave Frodo. But he cannot face him. What is he to do?

Sam huddles in the shadows. He feels, suddenly, like Gollum.

No one has to know. It’s all up to him now. He could choose not to go. He could complete the quest alone, or turn away and hide by himself, and Frodo would perish, and no one would have to know.

...What is he thinking? Abandon Frodo? Is that what he has come to?

Sam has never been more afraid. All the forces of Mordor could be after him, and he could not be more afraid. For the first time, he is glad that he is not likely to survive this quest. 

He thinks of Frodo’s blank, accusing eyes, pale and wide.

“Can you forgive me?” he whispers.

Can he rescue Frodo, knowing he might not?

He doesn’t know. 

He doesn’t know.

**Author's Note:**

> my twitter is [@nise_kazura](https://twitter.com/nise_kazura) if you want to block me


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